Underground
by Effin4
Summary: When John gets text messages from Sherlock, he assumes he's alive. But the fact that the texts weren't from Sherlock, doesn't mean he can't be alive. It just means that someone else is still alive too, and both are determinate to change that.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a Sherlock-fic I've been writing together with a lovely person called Bethany. We've done parts in turns, and it's been great fun. It's long, so we've decided split it in chapters, even though it's already completed. _

John. This might come as a shock, but... I'm alive. -SH

That's fine, take your time. I understand it's a difficult notion to process. -SH

Where are you? Who is this? JW

Come on, John, I thought that was obvious. It's me. I'm alive. Huzzah. -SH

Where. Are. You. JW

I can't tell you that. I promised Harriett I'd tell you I was alive, and so I have. But I can't tell you where I am or you'd do something foolish and get yourself killed. –SH

I'm going to look for you. And when I find you, I'm going to hit you so hard you wish you were dead. JW

I'd expect nothing less. –SH

How can you. Be Alive? I saw you jump. JW

Simple really. You only saw what I wanted you to see - why do you think I made you stay there? But that's not really the point of this. I need you to do something for me, John, something dangerous. –SH

Why should I do something for you? YOU LET ME BELIEVE YOU WERE DEAD. JW

If I hadn't jumped, then you wouldn't be here now, John. I couldn't let them do anything to you. I had to. And now you have to do this, or everything I've worked towards will be for nothing. –SH

...What is it? JW

I need you to get into Lestrade's office and take the files he has on that kidnapping that we worked on. He can't know I'm alive, so you'll have to be... discreet. –SH

Can't you just ask him? JW

Did you miss a part of the last text, John? He can't know I'm alive. No one can. I'm taking an incredible risk telling you, but I just couldn't do it alone. Trust me, I tried. –SH

Okay, I'll try. JW

I knew you would. Once you have them, give them to the Jeff, the homeless guy outside that Chinese place we like. –SH

Does he know you're alive? JW

No. But he knows what to do with it. –SH

You should probably also get rid of your SIM card now. They could trace these messages and then you won't be the only person to know my secret. –SH

You sure are expecting a lot. JW

When have I ever expected anything less? You must do this, John. Perhaps... perhaps we could meet up afterwards. –SH

I'll do this. How will I know if you get the files?

I'll get them. But... if you go to Jeff next week, he'll have something for you. –SH

Okay. I'm throwing my SIM card now. How will you find my new number? JW

Put it on your blog, it's what you normally do. I've noticed you haven't updated it in a while though. –SH

What is there to write? You're not here. JW

John did as Sherlock had told him, cut his SIM card in two, and threw it in a rubbish bin on his way to the police department. He figured he could hide behind asking Greg out for a pint.

He started to turn his lapels up against the cold wind but caught himself. No, that was what Sherlock did. After weeks of missing his friend, he had taken to adopting his mannerisms in an attempt to fill the gap. But he couldn't do it anymore. No, there was only one Sherlock Holmes. And he was back.

He let out a bark of laughter as the shocking relief bubbled up inside. He forced it down with several deep breaths - he was near the department and it wouldn't do to look too happy. Not when everyone thought Sherlock was still dead.

John went in the front door, almost crashing into Donovan. She cast him a look and he swore he saw pity in his eyes before she walked away fast. He went straight to Greg's office. Greg sat behind his desk, carefully reading what John figured had to be the kidnap file he had to give to Sherlock.

Greg looked up startled. "John, I... Bloody hell John, I'm glad to see you." He stood and got a good look at the doctor. The weeks of grief had obviously taken their toll. His face was gaunt and pale, as if he hadn't seen sunlight in days and his clothes were ruffled. Greg wasn't surprised at the state he was in - since Sherlock had jumped, no one had seen John for days.

"Hi, I'm glad to see you too! Actually, I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a pint... Tonight, or some other night." John added the last part with a bit insecure voice. He didn't dare to look the DI in the eyes, in case some of the relief from finding out Sherlock was alive was somewhere to be found in there.

The request shocked Greg - he hadn't pegged John for a 'drown-your-sorrows' type. But then again, grief did strange things to people. He looked at the clock. Still half an hour before I can officially clock off, he mused. But then again, who would really pull him up on it? John needed someone to talk to, that much was certain. If Greg could somehow help pull John out of his depression, he would do everything in his power to help. For Sherlock's sake. He smiled and grabbed his coat.

"Alright. Let's go."

John thought quickly. What could he do to make Greg leave the room for just a bit, so that he could take the file? "Uhm, but I think Donovan wanted to talk to you about something. She asked me to tell you to go down to her." Greg looked startled for a second, but nodded. "Okay, meet you down in the hall, then." Greg went out and headed for Donovan's office. John had a slight panic attack. He hadn't thought through what he would have to say when Donovan denied to ever have said that. He had no time to panic, however, and took the file and put it under his coat, leaving the office quickly.

He reached into his pocket and took out his phone to text Greg. "Sorry about this, but I've left my wallet at home. I'll meet you at the pub? -JW" He hoped that this wouldn't sound too feeble an excuse, but it was the only thing he could think of that would give him enough time to get the file to Jeff. He raced down the hall and out onto the busy London street, heading for the Chinese.

It didn't take him long to find Jeff, he'd seen Sherlock talking to him before. He still didn't look like much. John felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, and read the short reply from Greg before walking all the way up to the homeless guy. "Okay, meet you there. GL" John decided it would be best if he just walked past Jeff fast, giving him the file without stopping, and that was exactly what he did. When Jeff, who seemed to have expected it, had taken the file, John went quickly home, just in case someone should be following him.

As the door closed behind him, John felt a shiver of adrenaline climb up his spine. He remembered this. He remembered how much he loved the espionage, the secrecy, the thrill of the chase just like how it always was when Sherlock was alive. Without him, John's life just didn't have any more spark and honestly... there were times when he felt like he would never live that way again. He smoothed his hand over his face as he realised that he would never again feel alive if Sherlock wasn't with him. It was as if he was only one half of a whole and now that Sherlock was back, John was complete.

He smiled and laughed, until tears fell from his eyes as he let the realisation hit him. Sherlock was back and within a week, John would have something of his and all would be well again. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath to sober up. He owed Lestrade a drink.

He went out again in the cold wind, but it didn't feel so bad. He wondered what he was going to say to Greg about Donovan. Luckily, the problem turned out to have solved itself. "Donovan had left when I came down to her. Probably wasn't anything important," Greg said, before pointing at the chair opposite him, and the beer that already stood there. "I ordered for you, hope you don't mind."

"Thanks. Listen, Greg, I... I'm sorry I-"

"No need to apologise, John. I know what he meant to you and I know you needed time. I'm just glad you're out of the flat now. Have you talked to anyone else since he... that day?"

John shook his head. He didn't really want to talk about Sherlock in case something would slip out, so he changed the subject. "How's work going? Any new cases?"

Greg looked like he was about to push the matter, but thought better of it. "Nothing much, just the usual stuff. The chief has everyone looking through the old files to see if it really was all... but that doesn't matter." He downed the rest of his pint and motioned to the bartender for another.

John didn't know what to say. Maybe going out with Greg had been a bad idea. He was so eager about knowing Sherlock was alive, and he couldn't think of anything else than what Jeff would have for him next week. Trying to not think so much, he downed his pint with Greg.

Greg shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with how the evening was going. He was never very good at talking to people that had just suffered from a loss like this. It was one of the things that made his job so difficult for him. Perhaps he shouldn't try to talk about Sherlock anymore - perhaps what John really needed was some normalcy, something to distract him from the gaping hole that Sherlock had left. "So... Manchester City won the cup. You watch it?"

John swallowed a laugh. Poor Greg, this wasn't any easier for him. "Yeah, great game," John said, who vaguely remembered watching something with a football in it. He emptied his second pint.

Greg was relieved that he finally had something to talk about and set off rambling about the machinations of the game. John tried to appear interested, nodding and giving the occasional 'yeah' whenever it was needed. His mind, however, was in turmoil, running through all the reasons that Sherlock might have needed to fake his own death and why he needed the kidnapping file.

After finishing his fifth pint, John realized he needed to go home. He could already feel he was affected by the alcohol, and it was better to finish now, before he said anything stupid. He got up from his chair, realizing he wasn't all that steady on his feet. "I think I'm going home now," he said.

He also wanted to go home and think about Sherlock, and about what was waiting on him. Next week was a long time.

Greg nodded blearily, standing up himself. "It were nice t'see ya, John," he slurred as he gathered his things. John clapped the DI on the back and watched him as he made his way to the door. He was sorry for the trouble that he had caused him, but it was for Sherlock and he knew that eventually Greg would understand. He always did. He took off walking towards the flat, barely able to contain his excitement. He didn't know how he was going to make it through the next few days, but what he did know was that the wait would be worth it.

_Tell us what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Here's chapter 2._

* * *

After one of the longest weeks John had ever lived through, he woke up the day Sherlock had said Jeff would have something for him. He'd also put his new mobile number up on the blog, but hadn't heard anything. He was excited and a bit frightened, what if Sherlock hadn't gotten the file?

He tried to calm himself as he dressed and ate a small breakfast. He wondered how he would go about this - should he just ask Jeff if he had something for him, or should he give him a £50 note as he had once seen Sherlock do? As much as he wanted this, he knew he couldn't waste that much money on it. He had barely enough money to keep renting the flat, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had been paying his way for a while. Mrs Hudson certainly hadn't asked for the rent recently... John sighed, trying to calm himself. He'd get to the Chinese first, and figure out what to do then.

He put his coat on, and went out. It was warmer than last week, but not much to speak of. He turned his lapels up without noticing it, and headed for the Chinese restaurant. Jeff was standing where he usually stood, looking much worse today than last week. It seemed like someone had given him quite a punch, he almost couldn't see with his left eye, it was all blue and swollen. John went up to him, trying not to seem to obvious, doing what he'd done last week, just passing by.

"Change, sir? Change for the homeless?"

John stopped and searched through his pockets, hoping that whatever happened to Jeff hadn't been becuase of Sherlock. He pulled out about a fivers worth of coins and let them fall slowly in to the cup that Jeff was holding out. "Thank you kindly, sir, thank you. It's a lovely day, isn't it? You might want to think about getting an ice-cream in Covent Garden, sir. I hear there's a van there at 12:30."

"Thank you, maybe, yeah," he muttered as his mind whirled. For a moment, John was nonplussed. _This_ was what Sherlock was giving him? An ice-cream? Then it dawned on him... perhaps he could... perhaps Sherlock was going to meet with him! Grinning, he turned and hailed a taxi.

"Covent Garden," he said to the cab-driver. He tried not getting his hopes up, but it was really hard. He longed so much after seeing Sherlock again. "He can't be meeting you in person," John said to himself. "It's too dangerous, he wouldn't even let you keep your SIM card." But no matter how many times he told himself Sherlock wasn't going to show up, he couldn't help the big, warm ball inside his chest who seemed to ease him so much. The cab finally stopped outside Covent Garden, and John checked the time. It was 12.27.

He paid the cabbie and took off, searching for an ice-cream van. He was slightly late and he desperately hoped that Sherlock - or whoever would meet him here - hadn't left already. He stood, looking around him, peering at the faces of every person that passed him by, hoping against hope that he would spot the familiar blue scarf, long coat, or that mop of brown hair.  
"What a pleasant surprise, John. Fancy meeting you here." Whilst the voice John heard behind him was familier, it wasn't the one he was expecting. The vaguely Irish drawl sent icy chills up his spine.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were dead." As John said those words, he realized it was the second time. What would be the next? Would Elvis come in and announce that he neither was dead? John tried to joke it away in his head, but he still stood face to face with the most dangerous man he'd ever met, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Moriarty sighed. "I have absolutely no idea what Sherlock sees in you, you're so droll, so... _ordinary_. Can't you think of something better to ask?" John shook his head as he thought furiously. If Moriarty's here, then that means that the homeless network that Sherlock employed must be compromised. Which could mean that the file John had stolen may not have gotten to Sherlock at all.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked instead, hoping to get some information. It wasn't like he was going to do something to him out here, among all the people, was it? John shook his head silently. This was Moriarty; he did what he wanted wherever he wanted. He tried to stay calm. Panicking wouldn't help at all. He had to find a way to help Sherlock.

"Dead. In the ground. In heaven, with all of his angel friends, though probably in hell as he took his own life," he sneered back to John and it was like his words had torn down his whole world, all over again.

"What?" John could scarcely form the words. The roar of the crowd had quietened and all he could hear now was the beating of his heart as it thumped louder, quicker, louder, faster until it eclipsed all else. Vaguely, he was aware that his breath had hitched; he was hyperventilating.

Moriarty was talking again and he forced himself to listen over the sound of his world falling apart.

"Oh, he was never alive, John. I sent those texts," he laughed cruelly, "you sure are easy to fool, John."

"I don't believe you." John said. "He's still alive, I know it. You might have sent me those texts, but he's still alive." John tried not to look around himself for evidence. He wouldn't believe this one more time. Moriarty had said "what Sherlock _sees_ in you", not what Sherlock '_saw'_.

"The evidence speaks for itself, John. He's not here. I am." He moved closer to John, leaning in until his lips were close to his ear. John had the vague notion that this must be how a mouse felt in the grips of a deadly viper. "And trust me, honey, I'm the one you should be worried about."

"What are you planning to do to me?" John asked bluntly. He realized that he had nothing to lose, not as long as he didn't seem to have Sherlock after all. He just stared in to Jim's eyes with not even a hint of fear, something that seemed to rather amuse the man in front of him.

"Do with you?" He laughed as he drew slightly away from John, to look into his eyes. John lost himself in their depth and saw just how truly mad Moriarty was. "No, John. I think the real question is, what are _you_ going to do for _me_?"

"What do you want me to do for you? I'm no use, you know. I've got nothing to lose. What makes you think I'll do what you want?" John's voice was tired, but cold and hard.

"Come now, John. You didn't think I'd come here without anything to barter with, did you? You do as I say and I'll... let Harry go." Moriarty seemed to relish the horror that dawned in John's eyes. His chest grew tight as he realised what had happened. Harriett was being held by this sociopath and he had almost no chance in getting her back by himself. Without Sherlock...

Moriarty cackled loudly as he saw the fight drain out of John.

"What do you want me to do?" He whispered, knowing that he had no choice.


	3. Chapter 3

Moriarty smiled a sly smile. "Well..." Just then, John spotted a blue scarf disappearing around the corner. Hang on, that didn't mean anything. A lot of people had blue scarves. "Not one that looks like that, though," said a little voice in his head. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "What did you say?" he asked Moriarty, when he realized he'd been talking.

"John, I feel like you should be paying more attention to me. I think it's quite clear that I have the upper hand here - I could have you and your sister killed at a moment's notice. I would expect you to at least LISTEN to me," he shouted at John, who had once again drifted off into thinking of that scarf and the possibilities it held. He jumped at the sudden change in pitch and reminded himself that it was not only his life that was at stake here. "I WILL NOT ask you again!" Moriarty barked a rather hysteric laugh, and apologised to John. "I really don't know what came over me, I suppose I just can't suffer the fool that doesn't listen. Now, run back to that dingy little flat of yours and get me Sherlock's journal. I'll be back at Harry's place, so drop it there when you find it."  
He turned to leave, and John let out a small sigh of relief that he wouldn't hurt him, though wondered at when he had ever seen Sherlock with a journal before.

"Oh, and just in case you get any ideas about going to good, ol' Lestrade, or doing anything to cross me... I'll take a finger off for every day you're not there. Starting midnight tomorrow." Moriarty left, laughing as he went.

John stood back, trying to take in everything that had happened. Had he really seen Sherlock? But, if it was Moriarty he'd been talking to... Could Sherlock still be alive? Even though he realized he had more pressing things to take care of, this was what occupied his mind. How could he get in touch with Sherlock if he was alive? He needed him, needed his help.

He took off running in the direction that he had seen the man with the blue scarf, pushing people out of his way as he went. A chorus of 'hey, watch it!'s and 'excuse me's followed him. He didn't care. His mind was whirling with thoughts; Harriett, Lestrade, the kidnapping files, the journal... and at the centre of it all, Sherlock Holmes.

He had to be alive. He had to.

Suddenly, he saw the blue scarf on one of the people far away in front of him. He realized he couldn't yell, and had to bite his lips hard to keep from doing so. He started to run faster, and he couldn't remember running this fast since Afghanistan.

His breath ripped in his chest, and he felt a burning in his legs and stomach as the lactic acid built up in his muscles. His brain kicked in and forced reasoning into his flight of adrenaline: what was he doing? If Moriarty was here, then he'd no doubt have someone tailing him - and if that was the case, and this man he was following really was Sherlock, he could be leading Moriarty right to him! He forced himself to slow to a stop. If Sherlock was alive and had been watching, then he would make himself known. He had to trust in him.

John realised that it would look suspicious if he just stopped running if someone was actually following him, so he kept on running, but made a turn and headed home to his flat, a thousand thoughts in his head. All the feelings of the last week was almost too much for him, but he ran even faster and realized it helped him. It was good feeling the pain elsewhere than in his heart. He jumped up the stairs and into the living room of the flat he knew so well. Now he had to find the journal. Had he ever even seen Sherlock with a journal?

He ripped the place apart. He started with Sherlock's usual hiding places: inside the hearth, the skull that sat on the fireplace, inside his cabinets. He flipped Sherlock's mattress, tearing at the bottom. He choked back a laugh as he pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. Cigarettes, but no journal.

He tried to put himself in Sherlock's place, something that seemed to almost impossible. A journal... If Sherlock still was alive, it could very well be that he'd been here and picked it up already. John felt a weird, kind of happy and angry feeling over the thought that Sherlock might have been in this apartment without saying anything to him.

He sat down heavily in Sherlock's favourite armchair. The room was a mess, books and pages were scattered everywhere; it was unlikely that he would find anything when it was like this. He bit back a sob. Hell, it was unlikely that he would find anything at all. If Sherlock had wanted to hide something, it was almost impossible to find it. Who's to say it was even in the flat? It could be anywhere...

His laptop made a noise - one that it hadn't made since he had written 'A Scandal in Belgravia' on his blog. It meant that someone had commented on it.

John moved up from his chair, and walked over to his laptop. He didn't know if he wanted to check. Who could be commenting on his blog, and now? Maybe Jim was giving him more threats; he had after all spent a long time looking for it. He thought with shivers about Harry losing her finger.

There was no name or email attached to the comment, just the red circle on the top left hand corner, telling John that it was private and that only he could access it. "Mrs Hudson's terrier." was all it read. John's brows furrowed in confusion... Mrs Hudson didn't have a dog, why was this person telling him...? Suddenly it clicked - the doorstop that permanently stationed outside Mrs Hudson's living room door was in the shape of a Jack Russell terrier. His heart leapt in his mouth as he mind connected the dots - could this be Sherlock telling him where his journal was? And if that's the case, he _was_ alive and Moriarty had been tricking him on that count, and more importantly, he had heard their conversation. It _was_ him in Covent Garden!

John ran down and into Mrs. Hudson's apartment, glad to find she was not home. He went over to the terrier, and lifted it. Under it, it was in fact a dark blue journal. It was really small and pretty, made of leather, with the initials SH written on it with silver, slanted, swirly letters. It was extremely pretty. John opened it. Inside it was written by the same hand, but not nearly as pretty. The one reading this would have a hell figuring out what it stood, but then again, that'd surely been Sherlock's point. John tried to decipher it, but gave up, though he was very curious about what was in here that Jim needed.

He flicked through the pages nonetheless to see if anything stood out. Some pages had newspaper clippings stuck neatly to it, with annotations and highlights, though others were just chunks of text, sometimes the handwriting was so small and cramped that the page looked almost completely black. Inkblots peppered a few pages, where Sherlock's thoughts came too quickly to be written down in any coherent way. John could just imagine him sitting at his desk in the dead of night with only the single lamp to light his way, writing feverishly in his exquisite journal. No wonder John never had noticed it - he was probably asleep whenever Sherlock took it out. He smiled sadly at the image, feeling a pang of loneliness. He silently wished Jim good luck in his attempt to untangle the mess of thoughts that Sherlock had scribed. John was about to slip the small book into his coat pocket when his eye caught on a coloured photograph tucked in one of the last few pages. He pulled it out and caught his breath in surprise. It was him. But why would Sherlock have a picture of him?

It wasn't very old, but he looked different than now. It must've been taken around the time they'd been in Baskervilles. he was smiling, but not at the camera, and he couldn't remember being photographed. Had Sherlock taken it without his knowing? What did this mean? What did a picture of him do in his notebook? He tried to catch his name in one of the pages the picture had been tucked between, but with no luck. He was about to give up, when he rather by accident happened to turn the picture around. On the back it was written something, this time with perfectly readable handwriting, clearly done with care.

He read the message once through and closed his eyes. It didn't help. Sherlock's words swirled around his mind and John felt faint with their power. He had to sit down. As he sank into one of Mrs. Hudson's sofas, he rubbed his forehead and tried to think, tried to process this new information... Sherlock...

Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had done it to protect him. Sherlock... loved him? But where was he now? And what should he do next? He obviously had to burn the picture... Although he'd liked to keep it as a reassuring, maybe, to look at. What should he do? This was just too much, all on top of the fact that his sister was still being kept hostage by Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous man John had ever known.

John had no idea what to do. Even his years in Afghanistan hadn't prepared him for this war that was raging on in his own country between maybe the two greatest minds in the world. And he was slap bang in the middle of it. His fingers traced the words Sherlock had written and his heart felt lighter than it had done in days. He smiled slightly as he placed the photo in his breast pocket - he already felt some of Sherlock's courage course through him as his fear melted away. His mind felt clearer than it had done since Sherlock had left - even before that, when his mind had been filled with so many conflicting feelings. They were gone now and all that was left was sudden realisation that he felt the same way. He stood and tucked the journal into his coat. He'd take it to Moriarty - after all, if Sherlock hadn't wanted him to do as he asked, why would he tell him where it was?

He went back to his own apartment, and even though it hurt, he put the picture in a saucepan and set fire to it. If Jim'd found it... Well. He'd already memorized the words, and they went on repeat in his head, giving him strength. He threw the ashes in the sink and watched it disappear down the drain. Then he took his coat back on, and went out in the cold air. It was slowly getting dark, he had to get there fast if he wanted to keep his sisters fingers.

The taxi ride was uneventful and he made it to Harry's with little time to spare. Before he could knock, the door was flung open by Jim Moriarty, though dressed down in his 'Richard Brooks' costume. It was amazing how different a change of outfit made you. In his signature suit, Moriarty was sinister and threatening, he exuded power. But in a cardigan, t-shirt and jeans, he looked meek and mild. Not at all like the person who had threatened him earlier that day. "John!" he exclaimed happily as he threw his arms around him.


	4. Chapter 4

"What the bloody hell?" John stood as frozen, not understanding why he was hugged. When Harry came out from behind with a little smile, he suddenly did. And stood speechless. Moriarty smiled and said with a sweet voice: "It's no nice to see you! Did you enjoy the flowers I sent you?" John stared at him, hating him for making him have to play along. "They were lovely" he said, with a smile that barely reached his mouth. "I brought you something in return," he added and gave the blue notebook to the man who'd finally stopped hugging him.

"Oh, John, you shouldn't have!" His eyes lit up as he examined the journal, "It's beautiful, exactly what I wanted!" John felt sick as he realised that he had been duped, but was also insanely glad that Harry hadn't been hurt. "Come in, come in, Harry was just making dinner." He was ushered into the house, forced to play along and keep silent even when he was screaming inside. "No present for me, John?" Harry joked as he followed her into the kitchen with Moriarty trailing behind.

"Sorry," he mumbled, as he sighed imperceptibly. "John, oh, we have so much to talk about! Harry has told me so much about you! I'm so sorry to hear about your friend, by the way." John sent him a smile, and a silent wish that he'd suddenly go up in fire and burn to death. Luckily, Harry didn't notice the look in John's eyes. "It's okay..." he said. "Richard, darling, won't you please lay the table," Harry said, and "'Richard' was happy to obey. "Isn't he great! He told me you met in Covent Garden today, and that he recognized you from pictures and asked you to come over for dinner. I'm so happy you did! I haven't heard from you since, well..." she went abruptly silent and looked away. "Harry... I thought you were gay." "Yeah, so did I! But Richard is so great..." Harry looked dreamingly, and John wanted nothing more than to tell her what he really was.

"Yeah, great." He coughed and shifted his eyes, thinking of something to say that wouldn't portray his feelings. He wanted nothing more than to go home, but he couldn't leave Harry alone with this psychopath. "So, uh, how long have you two been together?"

"Oh, you know, just a few weeks, really. But we've seemed to really hit it off. He's just so..." She sighed happily as she bustled around the kitchen. John tried to smile and look happy for his sister, but he couldn't just leave it like this. He had to try and warn her.

"Listen, Harry, I need to tell you something. He-"

"Table's ready!" John was interrupted by Moriarty's call and the moment was lost. He couldn't tell her when he was here - there was no telling what he would do.

"Food's ready too!" Harry called back. "John, help me with this."

He sighed as he went to take some of the plates from her, following her to their dining room.

"I hope you weren't talking about me," 'Richard' said. "I don't like when people talk about me without me being there." He said it with a smile, but looked directly at John with warning in his eyes. The warning was simple, don't say a word. John sat down by the table, looking at the food, not feeling hungry at all. He wanted to go home, he wanted Sherlock to be there and he wanted Jim Moriarty dead and gone.

But he knew it didn't matter what he wanted, the only thing that mattered now was to keep this pretence up so that Harry would be safe. It's true that they'd never really seen eye-to-eye, but he couldn't let her be hurt like this... but there was nothing he could do other than hope that Moriarty would play out his little game and then leave. He had what he wanted, there was nothing left for him here. Except he knew that there was... there was Harry here, whom Moriarty would use to make John do whatever he wanted. Vaguely, he heard Harry laughing with 'Richard', but it was only when he felt her touch on his arm that he listened to what they were saying. He forced himself to pay attention, to keep up the pretence.

John bit his teeth together, put on a smile and joined the conversation, eating and pretending to have a good time. He hoped it soon was time for him to go home, because he was already tired and he wanted to sit for himself and repeat the note on the picture. "Ain't that right, John?" Harry smiled at him. "Yes," he answered smiling polite. "Well, tell us then!" John's facial expression betrayed him from his mask of listening, but Harry explained without commenting on it. "About that case! The one in Baskerville, that you weren't allowed to put up on your blog!" "Oh, of course!" John smiled. "But I can't say anything, I'm not allowed." He looked disappointed. "Oh, come on, John! I'm sure they won't care, and it'll stay in the _family_." Jim smirked at him. "Well, noo, I'm not allowed, also I have to protect one of the persons who's important to this story." "Henry Knight?" 'Richard' asked, looking interested. "I saw that programme," he added with a shy smile, when Harry stared surprised at him and John'd cocked an eyebrow. "Oh," Harry laughed. "Since Rich is so interested, you simply have to tell us!" She urged. John sight silently.

"Uh, well, the thing is, I..." John squirmed in his seat. The events in Baskerville were strictly top secret, and although he would normally have confided in Harry, he simply couldn't betray all he knew to Jim. The drug that they had discovered in the Hollow was something that John knew could never again see the light of day - especially if it was revealed to Moriarty. There was no knowing what vile plan he had for it. He looked at Harry's expectant face as she urged him to tell the story. He couldn't go against Moriarty's plans, not when she was here, not when she was in danger.

A vibration in his pocket made him jump. Thank God, he thought, as he grimaced an apology to Harry, though inside he was flush with relief. "Sorry, I've got to answer this."

He went up from his seat, disappearing in to the kitchen. The number was anonymous. Who could it be? He stood far away from the living room, and he could vaguely hear Harry and Jim talking about something, sounding happy. "Hello, this is John." "Hello, John."

His heart stopped and he almost forgot to breathe. Despite everything, despite the scarf, the comment, the texts, he could scarcely believe that Sherlock was alive... But now, hearing his voice for the first time in what seemed like forever... "Oh, my God, Sh-" his voice was barely a whisper, but even in his giddy state, he realised it would be impertinent to say his name. What if Moriarty was listening?

"Don't say it John. Relax. Make an excuse soon, and call a cab. I'll be waiting. Harry is safe, for now, I've got someone watching over her." John just gaped, but then realised it must sound weird not saying anything. "Uhm, Sorry, Greg, I can't come down to the police department now... I'm at my sisters." "Good. Don't say anything about Baskervilles." "Yes, I'll come down tomorrow. See you then." Sherlock had already hung up, but John pressed the button anyway. He went in to the living room again, finding Jim hanging over his sister, kissing her gently. "Who was it?" Harry stopped the kiss, smiling. "Greg," John said, forcing himself to smile back. "Oh, is there a new case?" Jim looked curios.

"Yes," John said, feeling relieved that the topic of conversation had moved on, though sickened as he thought of Moriarty, the Moriarty, kissing his sister. Jim looked like he was about to say something else, but John cut him off. "Greg wants me in early, and it's already past midnight." He smiled an apology to Harry as he lent down to kiss her on the forehead. "I best make my way back. Thanks for the dinner, it was lovely... and it was-" John tried not to let the disgust show on his face, "-nice to see you again, Richard. Well, I'll be off!" He barely caught the look of unbridled hatred from Jim as he left, spoiling his fun. He pushed away his fears for Harry's safety as he reminded himself that Sherlock had it under control. He hailed a cab and for the first time in the weeks since Sherlock had been... gone, he felt excited to be going back to 221b.

He took a good look at the cab driver, which turned out to be and old man with grey hair. Pretty safe, he thought. "221B Baker Street" John said, relieved for finally being out of there. The journey took too long. John was so impatiently waiting, but tried not to let it show, just in case the cabdriver was spying for Jim or something. Finally the cab stopped outside 221B, and John went out, paying the driver, almost trembling. He forced himself not to run, but walked slowly up the stairs and opened the door. Even though he'd heard his voice, nothing could prepare him for the shock of seeing a well-known figure sitting in the armchair opposite John's.

He just stood there for a while. Watching him, drinking in his appearance like it was water and he was the thirstiest man in the world. He traced the outline of Sherlock's face, the strong nose, the high-strung cheekbones, his pouting mouth and his eyes. His eyes, the most incredible blue he had ever seen. While Sherlock could masterfully control his expressions, it was always the eyes that gave him away. It was unlikely that anyone else would ever pick up on it, but John had spent nearly every waking minute staring into those eyes. One colour, yet so many different shades - icy blue when he was angry, a dark, whirling tempest when he was melancholy, and sky-blue. Sky-blue when he was looking at John. He couldn't see what colour they were now, but he could guess. "John." He said it measured, composed, though John could hear the husky undertones of emotions that he was holding back. John didn't know what to do, what to say... but that didn't matter. Sherlock was back. His Sherlock.

John managed to close the door, before walking over to him. He couldn't help himself, but threw himself over him. He held him, just to make sure he was really there. "Sherlock," he whispered, trembling all over.

Sherlock was still for a second, unsure of how to proceed. He lifted his arms uncertainly and slowly, firmly, wrapped them around John. His grip tightened as he realised that this is where his arms had ached to be. They were needed here, here around John. "I must say, John, this isn't exactly the welcome I was expecting. I thought... I thought you'd be more angry."

"I'm not there yet, but I will be," John assured, still holding Sherlock tight. He smelled in the well-known smell, and felt his whole body aching. "I've missed you so much, Sherlock, you have no idea... I'm so glad you are back!" He tightened his grip even more, but Sherlock didn't complain. He just answered with stroking John's hair lightly. "I've missed you too," Sherlock said, his voice unsteady.

They stayed that way for an indeterminable amount of time. It felt like years to John, but by the time they untangled go, it was too soon. "Now tell me," John said as he settled down beside Sherlock. They wouldn't normally sit like this but after the length of time they spent apart, John never wanted to leave Sherlock again. "What is this all about?"

"Well, you already know why I jumped. I thought Jim was dead, but it turned out he wasn't. He want the drug that they used in Baskervilles, although he doesn't know the whole story, and is still not totally sure about it existence. I've hunt down his three men, and now we have to take him down." Sherlock said, and if John didn't know better, he'd thought Sherlock's voice sounded insecure.

John frowned. He didn't know why he doubted Sherlock, but he knew that Sherlock would hold back anything he thought that John didn't need to know, or what he thought John might have deduced already. Something told John that Moriarty wasn't interested solely in the drug from Baskerville, that there was something bigger that he was missing. Moriarty didn't need John to find the drug, not really. There were plenty more people out there that new more about it than he ever could, why didn't Moriarty just play his games with them? A thought occurred to him, "Does he know that you're alive?"

"No, but I think he'll get a hunch, soon. Until now I've managed to keep myself distant, but I couldn't anymore, and he'll know, soon." Sherlock looked away, not meeting Johns eyes.

"Then what do we do? How do we stop him?" In John's eyes, Moriarty had already defied death once, how on earth could they kill him again?

"We have to kill him," Sherlock said after a while. He didn't say so, but he actually wasn't sure of how, yet.

"I don't know, Sherlock, couldn't we just go to Lestrade?" If the DI were told of what was going on, John was sure it would go a lot smoother - there'd be less chance of anything going wrong that way. But, then again, John thought, it would be easier for Moriarty to catch wind of it all.

Sherlock gave John a little look, but answered. "I have thought about it. But he's still in the police department, and I don't know how much we can trust them. I mean, I'm still a fraud. Moriarty will find out, and he probably knows already now. We have to get rid of him, and then destroy the rest of his network. Killing him is easy enough, we just have to catch him..." Sherlock looked out in the room, resting his hand on John's knee without realizing it. John could see that he'd gone to his mind palace, and was partly flattered for not being asked to get out.

He knew he had to be quiet so as not to disturb Sherlock. Part of him wanted to leave to allow the consulting detective some privacy as he entered the part of him that he had never shown anyone else. John knew this could last anywhere between seconds, minutes or hours - for one unsettling case, Sherlock hadn't moved for days. Still, there was another part of John that wanted to stay and watch Sherlock as he delved deep into his memories and the analytical side of his brain to create plans and marry facts together. John was fascinated as Sherlock's eyes twitched beneath their lids, as if they were following something that only Sherlock could say. John fancied that this would be like watching Sherlock sleep, watching him dream, and suddenly he felt his face grow warm as he realised how intimate his thoughts were getting. He was jolted out of his thoughts however, when he felt Sherlock's fingers on his knee start tapping and sliding, moving information around the palace. The intricate patterns that Sherlock drew left his skin burning and John forced himself to think of something else.

Letting this eyes fall down from Sherlock's face, he took a closer look to the whole man. He didn't look to good. He'd always been skinny, come on, the man never ate, but he was even skinnier now, and he was pale. The skin under his eyes were dark, like he hadn't had a good sleep in long. John had so many questions. Where had he stayed all this time? Did anyone else know if he were alive? Had he eaten /anything/ at all? Had he been watching him all the time? And did Sherlock really... love him? Like he'd written on the backside of the picture? He wanted so much to ask, but didn't dare to. Also, he couldn't disturb Sherlock now, when he'd allowed him to be there. John looked down at the hand that had been moving light-weight on his knee, which now didn't move at all. It just laid there, but his eyes still twitched, so obviously he was still far away in his own mind. While John felt his skin burn where Sherlock's hand now laid, and kept looking at the man, almost to ensure himself that all this was real, Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes.

"I've been living in a homeless shelter just off of Southbank, I've spent most of my time tracking down a few of Moriarty's remaining men. I haven't eaten much, you're right. The body's just a means, the brain is what's needed, you know that. Now," he patted John twice on the knee absentmindedly as he stood, "we should probably get going."

John stood up bewildered and yet somewhat relieved. It was good to have the old Sherlock back, the one that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, but he couldn't help but feel like something had changed. Like their separation had somehow bought them closer together. Just because they were closer, John thought wryly, didn't mean he knew what was going on in Sherlock's head. Just where was he taking them?

Sherlock grabbed his coat, and John had to almost run to catch up. It turned out he didn't need to, because when he was on his way out of the door, he saw that Sherlock had hailed a cab and stood waiting for him. Have he lost his senses? A cab? Anyone could recognize him, and also it was a huge chance it was Moriarty's men that were put behind the wheel. Following his detective as always, he got in the cab. "Where are we going?" he asked, without expecting an answer. He didn't get one either. "You'll see," Sherlock said. They'd been driving for about 15 min, when the cab suddenly stopped. "Wait here, I have to get something," Sherlock said, and went in to a grocery store. A couple of minutes later he came out with five bags. "Did you buy /food/?" John looked thunderstruck. Sherlock waived it away with his hand, and the cab started driving again. John opened his mouth wanting to ask about different things, but a look from Sherlock made him shut it. It was clearly that his flatmate had a plan. Finally, the car stopped outside a huge warehouse. Sherlock went out ahead of John, with all the bags. Clearly he had already paid the driver. He opened the huge door, and John followed after.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock walked through the warehouse quickly, as if he had already been there before, and it wasn't long before he disappeared behind a partition that allowed him to see the door, but that also hid him from view. John followed more slowly, gazing around the building, taking it all in. It was dusty inside, as if it hadn't been used in a while and parts of broken machinery littered the floor. To John, it looked like it could have been an old, maybe Victorian, work mill - where there would have been rows upon rows of looms, or some other machine. There were plenty of them still disused around London, though many had now been turned into apartments, or offices. He walked over to Sherlock, who had begun taking out the items from his bags and laying them down neatly. John looked over his shoulder, intrigued.

John was about to ask if he could start asking questions soon, but Sherlock said quickly: "No, you can't yet. We do not have very good time, but I promise I'll explain to you later." He placed the food he'd taken out around like they were supposed to eat, but put most of the items in the surprisingly huge pockets of his. "Sherlock, are you trying to make a dinner?" John couldn't help himself but ask. "No. Stop asking." Sherlock said, turning on his heel and walking even longer inside the warehouse. He made a sign for John to follow. Then he stopped, and started to feel around on the floor. It seemed like he'd found the thing he was looking for, and dragged in it. A little hatch was revealed. Sherlock pointed down, and John, a little bit insecure, went down the little ladder on the backside. Sherlock followed right after. When they'd come down, he pressed a little button, and not long after they heard a little "dunk" followed by a "crack". Sherlock took out a flashlight, and John looked amazed around. It was a long, tunnel, with different door on each sides. The walls, floor, roof and doors were made of concrete. They were all heavily, and John imagined this being used as a place to hide under bomb attacks during World War 2.

John wasn't a claustrophobic man, but there was something unsettling about the dark corridor. He thought about the compacted earth that lay just a few feet above him. And below him. And at each side. John imagined the cracking of the concrete as it buckled underneath the strain of being decades old, and the bone crushing weight of the combined earth and concrete as it fell down upon them. Would they die straight away, or would they suffocate? John took a deep breath - no sense in worrying about it, he told himself. Still his hands shook as he reached out to grab a hold of Sherlock's coat, and just the feeling of the rough-spun wool eased his heart a little.

Sherlock looked down at John, like it hadn't even occurred to him that this might not be something John was okay with. He stopped for a moment, holding John with his arms on each of his. "Are you okay?" He asked, and John could hear the worry in his voice. He felt really stupid, and weirdly relaxed by the fact that Sherlock held him. "Yes, yes, just a bit surprised," he mumbled, looking away. Sherlock didn't say anything, but kept his eyes on John, and continued holding his arm. He had to let go to open the fifth door, because the concrete door was thick and heavy, and Sherlock needed to use his whole body-weight and strength to push it open. The room inside was huge. It was also, as the rest of this hiding place, made of concrete, but the feeling of being in a tiny place disappeared. The air was much better in there, although there were no windows. What John first noticed, was a little tube that stuck out of one of the corners. John quickly figured that's where the air came from. When Sherlock went inside and moved the flashlight, John saw that there were a bed, a sofa and a table. "Sherlock... Are you planning on hiding here?" John asked, wondering if the man had lost his mind. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "No, okay. What's the plan of all this, then?" Sherlock pressed the door shut, locked it and turned to face John.

"First of all, this is a safe place. There are different ways to get out, so don't worry." Sherlock had noticed John getting a bit pale. He pointed at the sofa, and John sat down, and Sherlock sat next to him. He's doing it because he wants to, John thought. He could've sat farther away, yet he chose to sit close.

"The cabdriver was hired by Moriarty." John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock held up a hand. "It's part of the plan," he said, and continued, "this was a bomb shelter during World War Two. The men who made it are dead, and to all extents and purposes, it's been forgotten and abandoned. That button you saw me press closed the ability to open the hatch from the outside. It locked the opener and laid a floor plank above it too, so you couldn't find it if you didn't know it was there. There are a couple of ways out, which I had to go in to make it possible to open the hatch now. It's a long way, and if it wasn't for the fact that I knew one of the men, I'd never had found it." Sherlock took a little break, and looked at an overwhelmed John.

"So we're hiding," he said, unable to say anything else. He actually didn't understand at all.

"No," Sherlock said. "Or, well, kind of. You see, he will come here. He would want to speak to me, and then kill us. Properly, this time. We needed a safe place to figure things out. Moriarty's decided that his next big venture would be the Baskerville drug, and I propose we give it to him."

"What?" John was baffled, why should they ever give in to Moriarty?

Sherlock gestured to the bags that were sitting on a table in the corner. "Just hear me out, John. Ever since I uncovered that he wants the drug I've been constructing a replica from those files we found about H.O.U.N.D. I couldn't get the formula exactly right; it might surprise you to know that it's quite difficult to procure certain chemicals when you're masquerading as a homeless person. But what I did manage to create was much more deadly than the original. In a concentrated form it would produce effects much like the Baskerville drug, though it would eventually lead to the death of the victim."

"Sherlock, why would you make something like this? This isn't doing anything but _helping_ Moriarty!"

"John, hear me out, please," Sherlock sounded exhausted and John immediately shut up. He knew that Sherlock must have been working on this plan for most of the time he had been in hiding and it was unlike him to give his arch-nemesis something that would be used to injure, or even kill, possibly millions of people. Even though Sherlock appeared cold and distant, he knew that he would never let that happen. John nodded at Sherlock to continue. Instead of explaining further, however, Sherlock got up and walked over to the table and rifled around for something. He found whatever it was and threw it over to John. John snagged it easily out of the air and saw it was a small capsule that would fit easily and inconspicuously into the palm of his hand. The top of the cartridge-like object sported a nozzle like one would find on a deodorant can. John instinctively knew that he shouldn't push it – he could guess what was inside.

"I propose that I distract him, whilst you get close enough to spray him directly in the face. Try not to breathe any of it in, though. In fact, you should wait until we can get out of the room quickly before you do spray it. I haven't tested it thoroughly yet, and there's no way to tell how concentrated it is, or how much you need to inhale before you feel any of the effects."

John felt an unpleasant shiver down his spine as he nodded. The plan was good enough, just not very safe for their sake. He made a note to draw his breath deep before spraying this. "Well, what do we do now?" he asked. "Moriarty isn't coming right away, after what you've said."

"No, we have some time. He can't come through the way we did, he have to go in the other way. That gives us about two hours, three if he's slow." John looked at him, and sat down. "You haven't eaten all day," Sherlock said, throwing him a bag of soup. John was about to say something about Sherlock not haven't eaten for days, but got distracted when he realized what he held in his hands.

"Uhm, Sherlock... You realize we need hot water to make soup, right?" Sherlock threw something a bit heavier to him. John held it up in the light of one of the four huge flashlights Sherlock had turned on, and gaped. "You... Sherlock Holmes, put water... in a thermos." he couldn't quite believe it. Sherlock didn't say anything, but hid a smile while diving in to one of the bags, giving John a plastic bowl.

John made his soup and watched Sherlock make his through hooded eyes. He was pleased when Sherlock took his first mouthful and couldn't help glancing at him every now and then as he ate his own. He shook his head and smiled wryly. A few years ago, John wouldn't have believed anyone if they had told him he would be entrusting his life to a crime fighting, 'high functioning sociopath', let alone the fact that he might love again. He froze, his hand halfway from the bowl to his lips. Love again? Did he truly love Sherlock? It was strange thinking how the man before him had once even refused to call him a friend, and yet now he knew that Sherlock loved him and... he might just love him in return. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Sherlock had also stopped eating and was watching him with slight concern on his face. John forced himself to finish his soup and push his feelings aside. They'd be examined later, when they've gotten out of this mess.

John sat his bowl down, looking over at Sherlock, who was still watching him. He'd clearly forgotten all about his soup, as far as John could see he'd just eaten half of it. "Sherlock," he said, breaking the examination Sherlock did of him. "You have to eat." He expected Sherlock to say something about mind over body, or that he didn't obey human needs, but he just bent over his now probably cold soup, finishing it pretty fast. After putting his bowl in Johns, he took a look at the watch. "We have about one hour before he shows up, I doubt he'll be slow."

"Are there anything else you want to ask about?" Sherlock added with something undefined in his voice.

John squirmed slightly in his seat - he knew what Sherlock was alluding to (or, at least, he hoped he did) and he thought that perhaps it was now or never. He took a deep breath and began with the journal. "Sherlock, before I gave your journal to Moriarty, I flipped through it." He glanced up to see Sherlock's reaction, but he was his usual, stony face. The only hint of emotion was in his eyes, their focus solely on him, the blue colour of a stormy sea. "I found -" his breath hitched here, and he had to smooth his sweating hands on his trousers, "aphotoofme." He finished the sentence quickly, on the exhale of a breath. He looked sheepishly at Sherlock, who simply nodded. "There was something written there, Sherlock, tell me... was it true?" Now he found he couldn't look at him.

Sherlock looked at him, even more unreadable than usual. The only thing that gave him away was his eyes. They were searching for John's, looking for an answer in them, but John couldn't look at him, not yet. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Sherlock drew his breath imperceptibly. "Yes, of course. I hadn't written it if it wasn't." John could hear he added 'of course' to try to sound indifferent, but it was half-hearted and he didn't make it. The realisation hit him. Sherlock really loved him. He could feel himself ease, like a weight had been lifted off him, and realized he'd been more anxious about this than he'd thought. Sherlock really loved him. Finally he was able to look up and meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock, I..." No matter that he knew it was true, no matter that he knew he wanted it too, John couldn't say the words. His emotions engulfed him and he couldn't speak, his adam's apple bobbed uselessly up and down as he tried to form what he wanted to say. Sherlock must have taken his silence as a rejection and turned away, unable to meet his eyes any longer.

"No," John whispered hoarsely as he got up from the sofa and slowly made his way towards Sherlock. It was as if he moved through water, the air had thickened around him. There was a hollow pounding in his head as his heart beat steadily faster and faster. He gently took Sherlock's shoulder and turned him so they faced each other. Reluctantly, Sherlock's eyes slowly found his, a million questions in them that were answered by John's next action. Standing on his tiptoes, John let his eyes flutter close as he gently let his lips touch Sherlock's.

The warmth of Sherlock's lips met him. The first seconds Sherlock stood totally still, not moving a muscle. John was starting to get worried he'd crossed the line, when Sherlock bent down, so that John could stand normally. Careful, remembering that this was a man which this was (as far as he knew) unknown to, he started moving his lips. He could feel Sherlock being insecure, but took after John's movements pretty fast, parting his lips. He laid his hands around John's waist, pressing him gently closer.

John smiled slightly against Sherlock's lips as the realisation of what he was doing sunk in. He lifted his hand to cup his face, and traced his fingers lightly over Sherlock's sharp cheekbones and the hollows underneath. They were so caught up in the moment, so intent on the pleasure that each of them were feeling that they didn't hear the large door open behind them. Sherlock broke the kiss off first, somehow sensing that they were not alone, and John turned to see in dismay who had walked in. One was expected, the other not. Jim Moriarty stood behind his sister, Harry, using her as a human shield of sorts.

"Well, John, I guess it runs in the family," Harry said dryly.


	6. Chapter 6

John stood as frozen. "Harry, what on earth are you doing here?"

Moriarty laughed. "Now, look at that. How ordinary. Sherlock, I think you've lost it, which fits perfectly, considering that I'm going to kill you now. The loss won't be so hard to take, now that you're not any more special or fun than the rest of the idiots on this planet."

"Jim, I was expecting you," Sherlock said, stepping away from John, and took a look at the time. "And oh, you're early. How nice of you to come right in without knocking." The ice in Sherlock's voice was hard and pointed.

Harry looked from Jim and back to Sherlock and then over to John. "Jim?" she asked, puzzled.

John looked frantically between Harry and Moriarty, knowing that there was almost no way they could go about their plan now. He couldn't attempt to spray Moriarty in the face as he risked exposing his sister to the harmful drugs.

Harry's eyebrows furrowed, as she looked with confusion between Sherlock and Jim, "Sherlock? But you're... you were... dead." She looked pleadingly at John, imploring him to explain what was going on.

John felt his heart break as he looked at her, knowing that what he was going to say next would hurt her for a long time, as he knew that she did truly love the facade, Richard Brooke. "Harry, Jim... Richard, is _him_. He _is_ Moriarty."

Harry stood gaping for a second, and then shook her head. "No." she said. "No. This is Richard." She threw a glimpse on him. "Right, darling?" Moriarty didn't care to look at her. "This chitchat is starting to get boring. You know what I want, Sherlock." "Yes, and I'll give it to you. After you've told me what you're going to use it for." Sherlock's voice was hard and his mask of indifference was immersive.

"Oh, you know, this and that. Auction it off, kill a few people," he shrugged, "whatever takes my fancy, really."

Harry had been watching with an open mouth, unable to process what was happening. "Richard, what..." She tried again, but was barely spared a cold, hard glance. Moriarty only showed an interest in her when John motioned for her to move away from him, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Uh, uh," Jim said in a sing song voice as he grabbed Harry's arm and held her close. He smirked at John, "just in case you get any ideas."

Sherlock, who'd obviously understood the problem with the little can that laid in John's left pocket, looked at Moriarty and said with a somewhat polite voice. "I'll give you the drug, if you let Harry out of here." "Don't be so naive, Sherlock." Jim almost whispered, looking slightly embarrassed over Sherlock's words. "If she goes, I'll pick her up right after," he said with a smile. "Also, I can find the drug when you're dead." His voice turned hard uttering the last sentence. "Of course. The only thing I want to spare her for is so she can see her brother killed."

Harry's eyes widened in horror as she processed Jim's last sentence. She looked over to John with an expression that broke his heart. "John..." she whispered as the full terror of the situation dawned on her and she began crying silently.

John looked over to Sherlock helplessly, though still believing that he might have some miraculous plan to save them all. Sherlock's eyes met his and in that instant, John knew that there really was no plan. His earlier idea had hinged on Moriarty coming alone, and John was fairly sure that had the hostage been anyone else, someone not as loved as Harry, it would have still happened... but now? John didn't know what they could do.

"Well, that seems reasonable," Jim said, being silent for a moment, before showing a little smile. "Too bad I'm not reasonable. She'll stay. Sorry for ruining whatever plan you two had."

"Jim... If you are going to kill us," Sherlock said with a pleading, wishing voice, "please kill me first. I couldn't bear" and here his voice cracked, "watching John die."

"Aww," Jim pouted, putting up a sad face. "That's not going to happen and you know it. Sorry, darling, but I like to see you GET HURT!" the last part he yelled out before smiling again.

John gaped at Sherlock. First of all by showing emotions, and then for thinking for a second that it would work. Jim wanted nothing more than to hurt Sherlock and would therefore - oh. John understood.

John thought frantically for a way out of this mess. He could charge in, grab Harry out the way, spray Jim and get out. But that would leave Sherlock still in harm's way, and besides, he was a fair way away from Moriarty and by the time he would have been close enough to do anything, he would have lost the element of surprise. He could... he could... John wasn't sure what he could do. The whole situation seemed hopeless. If only they'd told Lestrade what was happening!

Sherlock tried another track. "I haven't got the drug, the research centre had destroyed all evidence of its existence. There's only a facsimile I've been working on. It theoretically works on the same principles, though I haven't tested it yet," he gestured towards the desk. "I have the equipment. I could try and make it for you now." John knew that he was stalling for time, but was there anything else he could honestly do?

"Oh, dear me, Sherlock," Jim shook his head faking compassion. "You are really trying to get out of this, aren't you? Sorry to ruin it for you, /darling/ but you and John are dying today, and you will watch him die." John felt the rest of his hope fly away, leaving him empty and cold. He looked at his sister who had a weirdly determined look on her face, and tried to show her how sorry he was. Jim stood facing Sherlock, and Harry stood a little behind him and on his left. John stood opposite Sherlock, but more or less on the right side." Sherlock, you have one more try, and then I'll shoot John. Give me the drug." Just when Sherlock was reaching after something in his inner pocket, Harry threw herself over Moriarty, sitting on his back, hiding her head behind his. She'd placed her hands in front of his eyes and temporary blinded him.

John wasted no time and sprang forward, determined to get his sister out of the way. By the time he reached them, though it had only been seconds, Moriarty had ripped her off his back and was straightening up only to be knocked down to the floor by John's right hook. He shouted at Sherlock to get Harry away from here and in his peripheral vision, he could see them stagger out of the open door. John ripped his pocket in search of the small contraption that Sherlock had given him and aimed it at Jim Moriarty. "You should always listen to the doctor, and take your medicine." With that, John took a quick, deep breath and sprayed the deadly drug into Moriarty's open face.

Moriarty howled as he deduced what had just happened. He reached into his pocket blindly and drew out a gun, pointing wildly at where John stood. John didn't waste any more time, and ran as fast as he could for the door.

With his last vestiges of strength, James Moriarty squeezed the trigger. Three booming gunshots were heard in the underground bunker before Moriarty finally lay still.

"Close the door! CLOSE THE DOOR!" Sherlock yelled, and John closed the door with a bang. "Come on, now, fast," Sherlock took Harry, who couldn't quite manage to stand on her own legs, over his shoulder, but stopped. He looked at John, who'd fallen on the floor, unconscious. He looked from Harry, who'd been hit by one of the bullets just next to her stomach, and to John, before putting her down. He couldn't take both of them. John would want him to take her, but he couldn't live with himself without John.

Harry had already understood the situation. "Take him," she whispered, "and run!"

Sherlock didn't waste time, but sent her an apologizing look, which was deeply sincere. He took John over his shoulder, and ran towards the little ladder. He pressed the button and heard a creaking sound. Sherlock didn't waste time, but pushed the hatch open, and nearly threw John up, before getting up himself. Sherlock took a firmer grip around John's waist, and ran all he had to the door. Outside the door stood a guard, but he was so quickly shot down that he hadn't even seen it coming. Sherlock ran with all he had, knowing that if he stopped, they'd blow up both of them, because of the dissolving means in one of the chemicals. The whole underground would fall together, as he and John would if he stopped. He gasped for air, feeling his legs weaken, but managed to carry on. He thought of the explosives and hoped that they'd come far enough away too not be completely blown to pieces. As he came close to the forest, he heard the first sound that told him it'd started.

John woke to the sound of explosions and for a second, he thought he was back in Afghanistan... but no, that couldn't be right - Sherlock was there, looking over him with a worried frown on his face. But why would Sherlock be in Afghanistan?

It took a few more seconds for his foggy mind to recall the events beforehand... Sherlock and John had kissed... Moriarty and Harriette... Harry had jumped on Moriarty, John had sprayed him - killed him, and then... Moriarty had _shot_ at them.

"Harry," John yelled, as his heart pounded. "Where's Harry?" Sherlock looked away. He didn't know what to say. Should he tell him that he had to choose one of them, or just that Harry didn't make it? John managed to sit up, noticing that Sherlock sat leant against a tree. The explosion sounds continued, though not to near. "Where's Harry, Sherlock?" John repeated, his voice filled with fear. When Sherlock still didn't answer, the realization hit him.

"Sherlock, you didn't... Tell me you didn't..." His eyes filled with tears as he looked towards the barn where - no, no, she can't be in there, dear God don't let her be in there, she can't, she just can't be in there - Harry had _died_. "Sherlock," his voiced hitched and broke, the pain in his head eclipsed by the pain in his heart.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, hearing how empty his words sounded. He knew that they meant nothing to John now. He tried to put his arm around him to comfort John, but John pulled away like he'd gotten burnt. His whole body ached, and a touch just made it worse. Sherlock hid the hurt in his face as best as he could, and just sat there in silence, and watched the most heart-breaking look on John's face. John wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, shake something, kill something, but he couldn't. His body was empty and limp, and his eyes were dry. He hadn't had a pain like this since Sherlock died. "John," Sherlock started, but cut off again. He didn't know what to say.

Sherlock could hear the sirens in the distance and he knew that they had to get away and fast - it would be difficult to explain everything to Lestrade and the rest of the police. "John, we have to go... I-I'm sorry, but we can't stay here!"

John hadn't heard Sherlock talking, he couldn't hear anything anymore, not above the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He vaguely thought that he might faint, but he pushed the concern away as he tried to stumble to his feet. Harry - he had to get Harry, she could still be alive, she might still be in there... Even though the rational side of his brain told him that nothing could survive that, he still had to try. He couldn't leave her to die there.

Sherlock realized just in time what John was about to do, and threw himself over him. John was still weak after the spray, so Sherlock was able to carry him and start running again. John started hitting and kicking him, desperate to get free. "Let go of me!" he yelled with his breath, each word almost strangling him to get out. "I have to, I have to," but he wasn't able to finish. Sobs without tears stopped the words, and he gave up, letting the realization hit him once again, and he could do nothing to help. He fell together, and Sherlock almost bent under the heavy weight, but was able with pure will to keep going. It didn't take long before they were out of the forest. To John, the time had just stopped. He felt numb, careless, as Sherlock put him in a cab. He didn't hear Sherlock tell the cabbie where too, but as soon as they stood inside 221B, he came out of the daze.

He saw red. John launched himself towards Sherlock, landing a few of his wild kicks and punches, though not really aiming, not really trying. Sherlock was able to fend off his blows easily. In the end, John stopped hitting, stopped biting. He just sank slowly into the ground, moaning softly.

It was John's fault - why... why did he get her involved in this mess?

John, listen to me. It's not your fault. It's nothing you could do to help her. John, listen. Please. Look at me." John looked at him, with black eyes. There was no light in them, they were empty and cold.

"John..." There was nothing he could do. Sherlock tried to rouse John from his stupor, but nothing seemed to work. In the end, he just sat there with him, trying not to get too close. As much as he would've liked to, he couldn't comfort John. Every time Sherlock tried to touch him, John flinched and moved away. It broke Sherlock's heart to see him like that, but he hoped that John would heal in time.

After what felt like ages, with Sherlock sitting next to him, and John keeping a distance, looking in to nothing, he finally turned to Sherlock. "How did it...Um," he cleared his throat, but without any strength. "How did it happen?" It hurt John to just utter the words, but he had to know. Sherlock looked away. "John, don't start. Please." Once again, John felt fear, but wasn't able to do anything. He stared back in to nothing, his voice empty. "Tell me, I want to know what happened."

"She was shot in the chest with a wayward bullet. Couldn't walk by herself," Sherlock refused to look at John whilst he was telling him. His voice took on a cold, medicinal tone - he was simply stating the facts, divorcing himself from the emotional turmoil he was feeling.

"And then what?" John asked, not feeling anything. He heard his own voice asking the questions he knew he didn't want answers on, but he didn't care. If he hurt, at least he'd feel something. Sherlock swallowed visibly, before continuing. "You were unconscious. I could just take one of you..." his voice died out. He knew it wouldn't be any help if he said that Harry had forced him to take John, although she probably would've if he hadn't chose John anyway. John sat as frozen.

Sherlock didn't know what else there was to say, what else he could say, so instead he just sat there and said nothing. He wanted to comfort John, to put his arms around him and soothe away his pain.

"Go away," John said, after some time. This time, it was Sherlock's turn to flinch. He checked that he didn't touch John in any way. "What?" "Go away. Go away." Each word was like a hard punch in the stomach.

Sherlock relented, standing up with a sigh. Perhaps having some time alone to sort things out would benefit John. He could only hope.

As he walked out the door, he turned to catch one final glimpse of a broken John, his head hanging loosely into his hands and Sherlock's heart twisted in sudden fear. What if John never recovered from this? What if John was lost forever?

_Well, that was it! We are considering writing a sequel, though. Hope you've enjoyed it!_


End file.
